


just winging it

by aiyah



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boyfriends, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Frick Capitalism, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sokka likes Chicken Wings, Wingstop, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiyah/pseuds/aiyah
Summary: Isn’t there that saying about the way to a man’s heart is his stomach? Something like that? Because that’s exactly what Zuko’s going to do.[alternatively: Zuko has a sudden realization about his boyfriend's insatiable love for Wingstop chicken wings.]
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 338





	just winging it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ciitadel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciitadel/gifts).



> this just spiraled out of control folks
> 
> unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine

△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

There are a few unspoken rules in the world of corporate capitalism—besides the general tenets of “play nice (but not that nice)” and “the dress code is business casual (but you’re expected to be dressed to the nines _all the time_ )” and “a good strong handshake is necessary (to convey your dominance in a situation)”, so to speak.

(Zuko’s pretty much memorized everything there is to know about how to survive in this pit of snakes. Being the long-disgraced heir to a Fortune 500 potato company does have its perks. Except for the “long-disgraced” part. Ozai hasn’t forgiven him for that.)

These rules generally come in handy during the networking events. Today is Zuko’s ninety-second appearance at “Generic Name for Networking Event for Young Professionals in New York City”, not that anyone’s actually counting, but hey. (GNNEYPNYC doesn’t quite have that same ring to it, sadly.) He’s fiddling around with a martini in his hands, wondering how many more glasses of watered-down spirits it’ll take to exorcise his demons and give him an excuse to go home and binge the latest season of Billions on Hulu.

It’s not like Zuko even wants to be here in the first place. Ty Lee had shown up on the doorstep to his apartment right as he was settling in and had all but dragged him to this event with the promise of free drinks and even better company. But the drinks are shit, the company is worse, and Ty Lee’s gone off Agni-knows-where, leaving Zuko standing at the high-top table all by himself and wondering how long he’ll have to suffer in this particular circle of hell.

“You okay there, dude?” Someone asks, and Zuko snorts slightly before placing his martini on the table before giving this person a piece of their mind.

“You do realize that—” he begins as he turns around, only for the words to dry up in his mouth at the guy standing in front of him. Sleek, dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. A cobalt blue blazer slung over one broad shoulder with the piercing eyes to match. Zuko feels a sudden shock of electricity surge down his spine.

 _I am a mere mortal in the company of a god_ , he thinks.

“Uh, definitely not a god, but I’m flattered.” The man raises his ~~perfectly arched~~ eyebrows before offering a hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around. I’m Sokka, by the way.”

“Sokka,” Zuko repeats dumbly, the name rolling off his tongue and down his throat, settling somewhere right above his collarbone and burning up a storm as he accepts the handshake. Sokka’s got a strong grip, not too forceful to scare people but enough to make an impression. One _hell_ of an impression.

“That’s my name,” Sokka laughs, and it’s a glorious sound that floats into Zuko’s ears and straight into his head. “And you are?”

“Me? Oh, uh—I’m Zuko,” Zuko says, cursing the tiny stammer in his voice. (Huos don’t stammer. It’s the number one rule, right above “ _take off your shoes before entering the house_ ” and “ _never stick your chopsticks in your rice_ ” and “ _be ruthless about your honor_ ”.)

“It’s very nice to meet you, Zuko,” Sokka replies, and the way that he says _Zuko_ —all smooth waves that crest at the _K_ —has Zuko flushing from his eartips. _It’s just the alcohol, you numbnut_ , he tells himself even though it isn’t true.

Zuko takes a sip of his martini to make a point to himself.

“So, like, this _networking_ thing,” Sokka says. “I haven’t been to one in so long, actually.”

“And I’ve been to one too many.” Zuko hopes his voice is as smooth as he thinks it is.

Sokka grins. “So, I guess I’ll start? My name’s Sokka Qanik, but you already know that. And I’m working as a software developer at Apple, and my favorite food is—”

Zuko holds up a hand. “Hold on. Isn’t this information you should be sharing for a first date or something?”

“Who says this isn’t a date?” And Sokka’s—wait, what?—was that—was _Sokka winking at him?_ Good spirits, the eyelashes on this man are to _die_ for.

“We’re at a _networking event_ ,” Zuko hisses, mostly to hide the sudden windstorm of plum-blossom blush across his face, but also because he isn’t mentally prepared to talk to, let alone _flirt_ with anyone at a corporate capitalistic event. (The snake pit isn’t exactly the ideal place for romance.)

“What if I told you that I’m trying to _net_ you into my _work_?”

Zuko slaps a hand against his mouth to trap the laughter of butterflies threatening to escape from his chest. “Agni, that’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.” A pause. “And I don’t think headhunting works like that.”

“Shame.” Sokka shakes his head in mock defeat. “And I thought I almost had you.”

“Well, you do. Have me. Have my attention, I mean.” _Smooth. Real smooth_. Zuko downs the rest of his martini and clinks his glass against the table. “I don’t know about you, but I could honestly go for another drink. And not from here.”

( _More like another shot of liquid courage so I can keep talking to this vision of a man_.)

“Is that an invitation, Mr. Zuko?”

“Huo. My last name’s Huo,” Zuko says breezily as he smooths down the sleeves of his suit jacket and sets a course for coat check. He turns around, tilting his head slightly. “Coming along?”

For a moment, Sokka looks so utterly lost that Zuko has half a mind to turn around and abandon his whole plan altogether. And then there’s a rough, warm hand laced into Zuko’s palm and a telltale whisper of rum and Coke wafting into the air as Sokka looks at him, all smiles and laughter.

“Of course.”

△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

Zuko’s halfway through dusting off the remnants of his presentation for tomorrow’s meeting when a manicured hand descends across the front of his face and waves frantically. Sighing, he pauses his music and removes his earbuds reluctantly before looking up.

It’s Ty Lee, of course. Condé Nast may be big, but it isn’t so big that he could ever forget the girl who sits across from him in the office. Or it might be because Ty Lee is awfully chipper and smiley for someone working as a technology analyst in the corporate world. Agni only knows where she finds all that unbridled enthusiasm to get her through the monotonous work day.

“Hey dude, you gotta minute?” Ty Lee asks, her voice bright against the dull roar of white noise. Zuko misses the agony of Black Veil Brides screeching in his ears. “Epicurious is looking for volunteers.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “I heard there’s gonna be free sandwiches.”

( _Classic move_ , Zuko thinks to himself because, of course, the logical thing for any multi-billion company to do is to lure starving office workers into an unknown situation with the promise of free food. Now that he thinks of it, that sounds like the entire recruiting process in a nutshell.)

(And also—Epicurious? Zuko knows literally nothing about that division on the twenty-fourth floor, save the fact that everyone working there seems to come into the elevator smelling like vanilla and butter and smiling till kingdom come. Sometimes, he wonders if the people working there are actually enthusiastic about their job or if they’re so high on delicious delusion that nothing else seems to matter. I mean, good food _can_ do that to a person.)

“I’m in,” he says after a minute, mostly because he’s interested in what kind of sandwiches are going to be there and how many he’ll be able to pilfer before Zhao comes back to check on the presentation and invariably launches into a lecture about professionalism in the workplace. That, and it’s already two-thirty in the afternoon and the only nourishment Zuko’s had all day has been a sorry cup of coffee from the kiosk downstairs that cost six dollars. ( _Six dollars for the world’s worst coffee_ , more like.) His stomach grumbles in approval as he kicks back from the chair, brushes down the front of his shirt, and follows Ty Lee to the elevators.

Fifty minutes later finds Zuko back at his desk, nursing the world’s soggiest ham sandwich and contemplating at least two thousand different ways to erase himself from existence.

The shoot had been a complete and utter disaster. Zuko had walked in and was promptly led to an empty table, upon which were no less than three hundred kitchen tools. It looked like an absolute battlefield and Zuko was the confused bystander, wondering how he was going to pick apart the carnage. He had fumbled around with a few of the gadgets, even picking one up and sniffing at it curiously.

( _Pizza cutting shears?_ What was this, As Seen On TV?)

“And you are—?” The girl behind the video camera had asked, her voice much too cheery for a gloomy Monday afternoon. Between the girl’s exuberant attitude and megawatt smile, Zuko was pretty sure that she would get along fantastically with Ty Lee.

“Zuko,” he had grunted, eyes darting back and forth from the table to the camera.

(Pizza cutting shears? Seriously?)

“Great, Zuko. I’m Yue, by the way!” The girl had mimed an air handshake. “For today’s shoot, I was wondering if you could fry up some chicken wings for me.”

“Excuse me?” Zuko was still eyeing the pizza cutting shears with distaste. He’s proud to say he’s never had a slice of pizza in his entire life.

“Yeah! Just fry up some chicken wings for me,” Yue had replied, her hands hovering over the video camera and her mouth still stretched in a grin so wide, the Cheshire Cat was calling for his job back. “We got everything you need on the table right there, so go ahead whenever you’re ready.”

Zuko had stared skeptically at the assortment of kitchenware looming before him. _Woe to the idiot who decides to use pizza cutting shears to fry chicken wings_ , he had muttered to himself as the camera began rolling and he picked up the bag of defrosted chicken wings. _Frying chicken wings shouldn’t be too bad_.

(Oh, how wrong he was.)

And now he’s sitting back at his desk with his presentation long-forgotten, picking apart his ham sandwich and wondering if self-defenestration off the fifty-first floor is the key to ending all of his troubles.

“Wow, I didn’t even know that deep fryers could catch on fire like that.” Ty Lee slides into her seat across from him, a cup of taro bubble tea painting condensation circles on her desk. Zuko hates bubble tea. He also has half the urge to grab it from his coworker’s desk and chug it unceremoniously.

Ouch. “Thank you.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way! Everyone knows that some part of the Basic Skills Challenge series is staged. I mean, are there people who really don’t know how to juice a lemon?” Ty Lee laughs, taking a sip from her bubble tea.

The frown that Zuko gives her is all she needs. “Oh. You’re serious.”

“My roommate in college didn’t know how to boil an egg.” Zuko replies. He has fond memories of watching Jet literally reaching into piping hot water with his bare hands to retrieve eggs and hearing the sounds of his roommate screaming about how the eggs weren’t hard enough.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Zuko picks off a limp tomato slice and flicks it into the trash can under his desk. This ham sandwich isn’t worth the hour of humiliation he just endured. “It seems that everyone underestimates the sheer stupidity of the human race.”

“Well, I mean, if it’s any consolation— “” and here Ty Lee rummages around in her drawer before handing a half-folded something to Zuko, “—I know this lady who’s a killer chef. Great instructor, too. Maybe you should go and check her out.”

Zuko unfolds the business card just enough to see the words “ _Institute of Culinary Education_ ” peeking from the top. He narrows his eyes. Ty Lee laughs.

“You _wound_ me,” Zuko declares before crumpling the business card back up and tossing it into the can. “You _absolutely_ wound me.”

(That doesn’t stop him from rummaging around his trash for the card before he leaves the office at a blissful seven-thirty at night. Zuko may be proud, but he isn’t dumb. Help is help.)

△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

Let’s get one thing straight: Zuko’s actually a decent cook.

Being the long-disgraced heir to Sozin’s Spuds means that food is practically his lifeblood, and he’s had plenty of time to develop his cooking techniques. Zuko’s definitely no Gordon Ramsey, but that doesn’t mean he can’t cook up a mean shrimp fried rice or chicken katsu curry when he puts his mind to it. His fridge is usually stocked to the brim with fresh vegetables and fruits, and Zuko prides himself on meal-prepping his favorite sweet potato skillet when he remembers to—which isn’t very often nowadays. Work is generally on the forefront of Zuko’s mind, right next to “call Mother every day” and “check on Azula to see how she’s doing in college”. But these days, his mind is usually preoccupied with thoughts of his boyfriend.

Ever since he first met Sokka at that GNNEYPNYC meeting—and yes, Zuko _is_ going to use that stupid acronym even if it pains him—Zuko’s been sailing on cloud nine. (And _yes_ , that was technically their first date. Sokka had made it through another three rounds of shots before declaring that Zuko was his boyfriend and no one was allowed to even think about dating the tech hottie from Condé Nast because Sokka called _first dibs_.) Sokka is nothing if not a caring boyfriend, taking Zuko out on dates in Central Park and texting him random memes at all hours of the night. (Seriously, do software developers even sleep?)

In other words, Sokka’s perfect.

So it comes as a great surprise to Zuko when Sokka drops a bombshell while they’re cuddling on the plush couch in Sokka’s apartment and watching Iron Chef America.

“I can’t cook.”

Silence falls, save for the sound of Masaharu Morimoto cheerfully decapitating a yellowtail onscreen. Zuko takes a moment to digest the information.

“Babe,” and Sokka’s looking at him, face scrunched in concern. “You good?”

“Yes,” Zuko replies after a moment. “I was—it was just—you can’t cook?”

“Nope! I can make a sandwich, but that’s about it. I was never a kitchen-kinda guy, yanno.”

“I see,” Zuko breathes a small sigh of relief, because _finally_ , finally he has something he can do for Sokka. Isn’t there that saying about the way to a man’s heart is his stomach? Something like that? Because that’s exactly what Zuko’s going to do. He’s going to cook his heart out for his boyfriend, and he’s going to enjoy every minute of it.

“So, uh, is there anything you like to eat in particular?” Zuko does his best to slide in that segue as neatly as possible.

Sokka’s tracing circles in Zuko’s lap. “I do love a good chicken wing, actually.”

(Oh, _fuck_.)

And it’s not even a _classy_ chicken wing. Sokka’s favorite chicken wings are from Wingstop, some commercialized fast-food chain that exploits American nostalgia in favor of bland, tasteless chicken wings. Zuko would know—he’s already tried every single flavor of Wingstop sauce and deemed them unsatisfactory and _unhealthy_. He’s talked to Sokka multiple times already, how his boyfriend’s fondness for mediocre chicken wings is _not a good thing for your health_ , but Sokka just laughs and throws a muscled arm around Zuko’s shoulder before flicking his forehead playfully.

“I’ll be fine, babe,” Sokka declares. “Chicken wings aren’t going to stop me.” He slaps his abs for emphasis, and Zuko just about dies.

But Zuko’s still a doting, anxious, and altogether too-concerned-for-his-own-good boyfriend, and he vows to make a chicken wing to end all chicken wings. A _poulet de résistance_ , if you will.

Which explains how Zuko finds himself standing outside the Institute of Culinary Education two weeks later, staring at the double doors before going in. The classroom is large, with stainless steel tables lined across the room underneath the soft glow of the overhead lights. Zuko picks a spot near the edge of the classroom, sliding his things into a basket before pulling on a white apron and sizing up his classmates.

A young woman takes the space across from him, and he watches as she ties back her hair into a makeshift bun. And apparently Zuko’s doing a pretty terrible job of hiding his gaze, because the woman looks at him and shakes her head.

“Sorry, I’m taken,” she says.

Zuko’s taken aback. “Uh, well, I’m taken, too.”

And this is how he meets Suki, a personal trainer who’s finally working out her new year’s resolution of cooking more for her girlfriend.

“She works at one of those food website-platform-things, y’know?” Suki explains as the rest of the class mills about before their instructor arrives. “And she’s always making good food for me, so I wanted to do the same for her.”

“Same here. But with my boyfriend, I mean,” Zuko replies, and the thought of _cooking for his boyfriend_ is enough to heat up his cheeks.

“You’ve definitely got it bad,” Suki remarks before the doors swing open and a tall, willowy woman marches in. She’s scowling, her wavy black hair tied up in a ponytail and her eyes lined with kohl. For some reason, Zuko’s immediately intimidated by her.

“Good afternoon, everyone. My name is June, and I’m your instructor for this class,” the woman announces, and the entire room falls silent. “Since you’re all here, I’m assuming that everyone’s here for the beginner knife skills class, yes?”

 _What? Beginner knife skills?_ Zuko’s already mastered the dice, the julienne, even the delicate chiffonade. The only reason he’s even here in a _recreational cooking class_ is because he wants to learn how to fry a chicken wing. Did he somehow manage to sign up for the wrong class?

“Uh—” Zuko starts to raise his hand, but it’s too late. June is already motioning for everyone to come up to the instructor’s table and demonstrating how to properly slice an onion without crying. Sighing, Zuko shoves his hands into his pockets and mentally prepares for the long class ahead.

It’s not until they’ve moved onto chopping carrots that June finally comes around to Zuko and Suki’s table. Zuko’s already spent the last twenty minutes lost in thought, his hands moving unconsciously to cut up the vegetables on the side of his board.

June scrutinizes Suki’s pile of carrots. “It’s good, but your cuts are still a bit uneven.”

The instructor’s eyes widen when she sees the tiny stack of perfectly-chopped carrots on Zuko’s cutting board. Zuko tries to hide his basil chiffonade, but June's already reaching forward and picking up the green ribbons. Suki’s staring at him from across the table.

“You have exquisite cuts, my friend,” June places the basil back on the cutting board, her eyes narrowing. “Makes me wonder why you’re in the beginner knife skills class.”

Zuko can feel the back of his neck prickling as everyone turns to look at him. Shame curls in his chest, and he wants nothing more than to disappear. (Unfortunately, defenestration from the first floor of a building is nigh impossible.)

“Did I _say_ you could stop?” June barks, and cacophony ensues as everyone turns back to their cutting boards. Zuko’s hands are trembling as he puts down his knife, and he notices Suki giving him a small smile of encouragement.

“I apologize for going ahead without your permission,” he mutters.

“Normally, I’d be absolutely furious that someone went ahead with the lesson without my permission,” June begins, rolling her eyes. “It’s all a matter of personal safety, and as your instructor, I am personally responsible for the wellbeing of every single person in this class. That includes you, Mr. Show-Off.”

Mortified, Zuko moves towards removing his apron and leaving the classroom, but a wrinkled hand stops him.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re _really_ here for,” June says, and it isn’t even a question.

Zuko stutters. “Chicken wing.”

“What?”

“I want to learn how to fry a chicken wing.”

June looks bemused. “Then why did you sign up for a knife skills class?”

“My friend—my coworker told me that you were a great chef, so I signed up for one of your classes, and I think I wasn’t reading closely when I was on the website,” Zuko looks down. “And then I ended up here, and somehow I just started cutting vegetables… and I didn’t stop.”

June goes silent for a moment, her eyes closed. Zuko’s on the verge of asking if she’s awake when the instructor blinks and looks up at him.

“Definitely one of the weirder reasons I’ve had someone ask for my help, but I think I can help you with that.” She pats him on the back, and Zuko feels a vague, almost sisterly warmth. “Come with me after class. I’ll see what I can do. Don’t count me out just yet.”

As June walks away, Zuko finally lets out a breath he doesn’t remember holding. Across the table, Suki’s shaking her head with amusement.

“Damn, you really do have it bad,” she whistles.

Zuko pointedly ignores her, his heart thumping as he waits for the end of class to get his hands on a world-class fried chicken wing recipe that he hopes June will deliver.

△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

June's recipe, as it turns out, is _delicious_.

Or at least it _smells_ delicious. Zuko eyes the plate of crispy chicken wings hungrily before focusing on the task at hand. He minces up cloves of spicy garlic, tossing them into a wok with some oil and sautéing the entire affair with copious amounts of fish sauce and sugar. The garlic sauce bubbles happily as he gingerly places chicken wing after chicken wing into the wok and tosses to coat.

“I’m finally done,” he says to no one in particular. Zuko can’t wait to see what Sokka thinks about his chicken wings, and he takes care to wrap them gently in tinfoil before pulling on a coat and walking out his apartment door. He shoots a quick text to Sokka about dropping by and _I hope you don’t mind garlicky chicken wings_.

Sokka’s apartment is just a quick train ride away, and Zuko does his best to fend off the curious glances and outright stares from the other riders, clutching his precious parcel to his chest. Zuko knows that these wings are going to be delicious—he just prays that his boyfriend will think the same way.

By the time Zuko finally reaches Sokka’s apartment, the sun has disappeared over the horizon and the sky is beginning to purple. He fumbles around in his pockets and triumphantly retrieves his copy of his boyfriend’s apartment key. Sokka had given him the key a few weeks ago, whispering something about _you can always come over to chill_ or _I’d love a surprise now and then_.

(Well, it’s definitely a surprise now.)

The apartment is suspiciously quiet as Zuko lets himself in, the only source of sound a constant warble coming from Hawky’s cage. Zuko slips his shoes off and pads into the living room, pausing to place the plate of wings on the nearby kitchen counter.

“Hey there, Hawky.” Zuko reaches through the slats of the cage. The cockatiel hops towards his fingers and nuzzles, chirping happily as Zuko scratches his head. “How are you?”

Hawky burbles.

“Yeah? Can you tell me where Sokka is?”

The cockatiel continues burbling, its eyes darting towards a closed door with light glowing out from the gap underneath. Zuko thinks he can hear the sound of someone talking. Sighing, he gives Hawky one last scratch before heading towards the door and opening it, only to see—

Wait.

Wait a minute.

Zuko watches as Sokka whirls around in his chair, mouth opening in confusion at his boyfriend’s sudden entrance. It would’ve been funny in any other situation, but Zuko’s attention is solely focused on the traitorous green-and-yellow paper food trays sprawled out on Sokka’s desk in front of his open laptop.

And suddenly, nothing matters anymore. Zuko remembers the grueling hours he’s put into marinating, preparing, frying his chicken wings, and seeing his boyfriend with a piece of Wingstop sticking out of his mouth is enough to send him into a rage. He can feel all of his frustrations about making chicken wings spilling over into reality.

“Are you cheating on me with… Wingstop?” The words leave Zuko’s mouth even before he has a chance to think how absurd it sounds. How can someone even think about cheating on their significant other with _measly chicken wings?_

“Zuko, babe, it’s not what it looks like—”

But Zuko’s far too tired, far too angry to care. “Don’t give me that excuse! I thought we talked about this before. Wingstop isn’t good for you!”

“Oh yeah?” Sokka stares him down. “I happen to like Wingstop a lot.”

“No.”

“You could even say that I like Wingstop more than I like French fries.”

Zuko gapes. “My great-grandfather did not sell his literal soul to the devil so he could raise a potato empire for you to say that!”

“Well _maybe_ if your great-grandfather hadn’t wasted his time creating a monopoly on the potato industry, I’d actually enjoy eating fries for once!”

“What does that have to do with Wingstop!”

“Absolutely nothing! Why are you yelling at me?”

“Because!” Zuko waves his hands wildly. “I can’t believe I’m second place to some common wench named Wingstop!”

Sokka crosses his arms. “Well, it sounds like this has been bothering you for some time, so tell me more.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now!” Zuko’s mind flashes to the plate of crispy, sticky chicken wings on the counter outside, and that image just makes him that much more heated about the whole situation. “I can’t believe that you would do this to me!”

“Zuko! What you and I have is completely different from what I have with Wingstop!”

“That doesn’t change anything! I can’t believe you chose some paltry poultry, some half-seasoned harlot, some _foul fowl_ over my _terrifically tempered tureen of Thai chicken wings_.”

(Zuko’s never been more glad that his SAT vocabulary class from eons ago is finally paying off—not that he’s actually thinking about it right now. He has bigger fish to fry at the moment.)

Sokka raises his hands in frustration. “What do you want from me!”

“Commitment!” Zuko screams. “I want commitment, damn it!”

(Oh, spirits. He’s crying now.)

Zuko rushes back outside, snatching up his plate of sticky wings in one hand and grabbing his coat with the other. Hot tears are streaming down his face, but he doesn’t even stop to wipe them off as he struggles to pull on his shoes.

Sokka catches him right as he’s opening the apartment door. Zuko can feel his boyfriend’s arms wrapping around his chest. He tries to wriggle away, but Sokka holds on, his arms warm and strong as he gently ushers Zuko back into the apartment and closes the door behind them. Sokka pulls them both into his bedroom before Zuko collapses on the floor, barely realizing how his boyfriend is kneeling next to him, his face full of concern.

“Babe, can you please calm down?” And Sokka’s thumbs are running twin circles in Zuko’s palms. “We need to talk.”

Zuko shakes his head.

“Babe, please. Look at me.” Sokka moves to wrap his hands around Zuko’s face. “I need to tell you something.”

 _Wait, what? Don’t tell me that we’re—we’ve only been going out for—everything’s been perfect—and then today—oh, I fucked up—what’s going on?_ Zuko steadies his breath before looking at his boyfriend. His heart is stammering so fast, it’s broken the “ _Huos never stammer_ ” rule several times over.

“I’m so sorry.” Sokka kisses Zuko’s forehead. “I didn’t realize that you were coming over today, so I was actually finishing up some work when you came in. And I know how much you hate that I like Wingstop and I probably have an addiction or something like that, and I promise, promise, _promise_ I’ll do a better job handling my habit, so please. I’m sorry.”

Zuko buries his face in Sokka’s shirt, sniffling. The shirt smells like detergent and salt and something deep and warm, and it takes all of Zuko’s willpower not to disintegrate into a blubbering mess again.

“I’m sorry about blowing up like that,” he finally says.

“I know.”

“And I’m sorry for yelling at you about how terrible Wingstop is.”

“I know.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was making chicken wings for you and that’s why I got so angry when I saw you eating Wingstop earlier.”

“I kno—wait, you _made_ chicken wings for me?” Sokka looks at him in amazement.

Zuko blinks shyly. “Yes, I did.”

“Oh, _shit_.” Sokka slaps himself on the forehead. “I’m an idiot. Of course you’d—wait, where are the wings?”

“I’m not giving them to you.” Zuko motions to hide the plate behind his back but Sokka is faster, his hands tugging the plate from Zuko’s grasp.

“ _You made this for me_ ,” Sokka breathes reverently. “ _My boyfriend made these just for me_.”

“They’re cold.” Zuko sniffs petulantly.

“You know I’m going to eat them anyways.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I’m going to,” Sokka takes a bite of the chicken wing, his face lighting up with surprise. “Zuko, this is _delicious_.”

“Hm.”

“I’m being serious, babe.” Sokka holds up his half-eaten wing and clears his throat. “Wingstop may be my crush, but your wings are my true love.”

Zuko wrinkles his nose. “That’s a terrible analogy.”

“And _that’s_ why I’m not the eloquent boyfriend.” Sokka picks up another wing and marvels at it. “How did you get it all, like, sticky and crispy and stuff?”

“Well, it’s a really long story,” Zuko says as he looks around the room, only to realize that the laptop on Sokka’s desk is humming merrily, the light on the camera shining a steady green. “Sokka? Why is your laptop camera on?”

He watches as his boyfriend blanches before wiping his hands on his jeans and scrambling around to pluck the laptop from its perch on the desk. Sokka sits back down on the floor and leans closer to Zuko, laptop still open as he presses a kiss on Zuko’s cheek and nudges him affectionately. Zuko can see a vaguely familiar band of purple running along the top of the screen and a wall of text blaring through on the side of the Twitch livestream.

“Say hi to the world, babe.”

△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

“So mukbang is the reason why you eat so much Wingstop.”

“But I have a reputation to uphold, babe.”

“And I’m not even going to guess where that channel name came from.”

“You gotta admit that Wing Fire is a pretty catchy name.”

“Next time.”

“Next time what?”

“Next time, I’m going to be the one making all the food. And _I_ want to see you eating _my_ food on your mukbang.”

“You have no idea how hungry that makes me.”

“I think I do.”

“Can you make me more chicken wings?”

“... I’ll think about it.”

“Pretty please?”

“I said I’ll think about it!”

**Author's Note:**

> did you know that chickens can form complex hierarchical structures? that's why we have _pecking orders_.


End file.
